


search the whole world

by dalyeau



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, M/M, a lil bit of fluff a lil bit of angst, post S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 19:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10793376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalyeau/pseuds/dalyeau
Summary: He knows he has Viktor in the palm of his hand, wrapped like a golden ring around a finger that could point at any location on the map, and Viktor would follow. Viktor would always follow.





	search the whole world

**Author's Note:**

> shows up 2 years later with starbucks and a new otp

**i.**

This is the thing about skating: everyone says it's like flying. Like opening your arms and letting the ice carry you all the way to the sky, tasting freedom like cotton candy melting against your tongue.

“But you don't think that,” Viktor says one afternoon when they're on the couch, all tangled limbs and intertwined fingers.

“I don't?” Yuuri asks after a moment, lazy.

It's Sunday. Viktor's hair smells like his ridiculously expensive shampoo and his collarbone smells like _him_ , something soft and masculine that would make Yuuri purr if he were the kind of person that purrs. Which he isn't. Just for the record. That was just one time.

“No.” Viktor's free hand traces a slow line up Yuuri's spine, under his shirt. “It's not like flying, is it, Yuuri.” God probably invented hands just so Viktor could touch him like this, Yuuri thinks absently. “The opposite. When you feel like you're flying, floating away... skating is the thing that grounds you. It keeps you where you want to be.”

Yuuri thinks about it. It's vague and doesn't make a lot of sense but, at the same time, it makes all the sense in the world. Most things with Viktor are like that.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I think you're right.”

“I really hope this is where you want to be now.”

“With you?” Yuuri looks up, tries to meet his eyes. “Of course.”

“I was going to say St. Petersburg, but.” And yes, this is why God invented smiles too, so Viktor can offer them and Yuuri can treasure every one of them, keeping them safe in his chest, in a place where they can be his and only his. “That too, Yuuri. That too.”

 

 

 

**ii.**

Katsuki Yuuri is twenty-five years old when he and Viktor have their very first fight. Not the I-lost-the-bag-of-nuts fight, not a You-hogged-the-blankets-all-night-and-I-hate-you fight. It's the kind of fight that makes the walls of Viktor's apartment seem a little bit narrower and the blue fire of Viktor's eyes seem a little bit colder. It's the I-love-you-but-you-drive-me-mad-sometimes fight that all couples have but not all survive.

“I thought you were happy here.”

“I am.”

“Then why didn't you tell me?”

Yuuri's lips press into a tight line and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Why didn't you tell me that you're also miserable?” Viktor asks, running a hand through his hair.

It's Wednesday. Figures. Yuuri's never liked Wednesdays that much.

“I thought it was obvious,” he starts, and then he rushes to finish his sentence when Viktor flinches, “that I'm not very good at communication. We've talked about this.”

“Clearly we haven't talked about it enough if you're still pulling this stuff on me, Yuuri.”

“What do you want me to say. That I'm miserable? Fine. And don't cry, you know I'm happy too. I'm always happy if I'm with you. But I miss my family and my messy small room and the hot springs and I miss the cherry blossoms. And Japanese. I miss all of it, Viktor.”

“Oh, Yuuri.”

“I even miss the chopsticks.”

Credit where credit is due, Viktor doesn't stupidly offer to buy him chopsticks, or to speak Japanese to him.

“You're homesick, Yuuri. I get it.”

“It happened in Detroit too. I got over it. I'll get over it.”

He won't, since Hasetsu holds a place in his heart that it never held when he was in Detroit, and Viktor seems to read his mind because now he's the one crossing his arms and oh, he never listens to Yuuri, does he? There are the tears, and didn't Yuuri just tell him not to cry? What a stubborn man.

“And now how am I supposed to wait for you to get over it when I know you're suffering? You're being selfish again, Katsuki Yuuri.”

“I guess I am.”

“Are you going to break up with me?”

“Why do you always ask me this when we have an argument?”

“Because,” Viktor says, wiping big tears with his sleeves, “I'm sort of dramatic, as you've noticed. And I need to know.”

Yuuri drops his arms. Slowly, a little tentative, he opens them.

“Viktor.”

It's like something magical and scientific all rolled up into one, a siren's song and the pull of gravity. Viktor immediately finds his place in Yuuri's arms, clutching him tightly the way Yuuri's seen him cling to the poodle tissue box.

“We can go back to Hasetsu, Yuuri. We can go wherever you want. I'll go wherever you want.”

Oh, yes, Yuuri knows. He knows he has Viktor in the palm of his hand, wrapped like a golden ring around a finger that could point at any location on the map, and Viktor would follow. Viktor would always follow. What is love if not exactly that, right.

Well, sometimes, maybe -just maybe- it is knowing you possess that kind of power over someone, and doing absolutely nothing with it.

 

 

 

 

**iii.**

It's a mood thing.

Sometimes Yuuri is in the mood to press Viktor into the mattress and make him beg for it; other times, Viktor is in the mood to eat him out until Yuuri feels like his soul will leave his body _if you don't do it now, Viktor, please, oh please, I want you inside, I'll do anything._

(Anything, Yuuri?)

“Yes. Yes.”

Viktor breaks him down and builds him up, puts him back together after tearing him apart. They're still learning how to move together, still figuring out spots and noises, and sometimes Viktor looks like he could eat Yuuri alive and other times red flowers bloom all over his cheeks and he says, _you're the most beautiful thing I've ever_.

“What.” Breathless. Quiet. His glasses hanging low and crooked on his nose. “You've ever what.”

Viktor doesn't reply, his mouth already busy with one of Yuuri's nipples, his fingers skating over the smooth skin of Yuuri's inner thigh. Tonight, Viktor is not in the mood to answer his questions (Viktor are you going to fuck me now?) or his demands (Viktor fuck me now) and instead he just says _Shhh_ and splits him open and fucks him, oh does he fuck him, slow and raw like a torture, except when Yuuri asks _(You love me, right? You do)_ and Viktor presses his lips to his wrist and says, _Of course._

 

 

 

**iv.**

14.58 p.m. > buy milk! we ran out  
15.03 p.m. > now you tell me. i just left the store  
15.04 p.m. > yuuri pleeease  
15.06 p.m. > ok  
15.06 p.m. > i love you so much  
15.10 p.m. > i love you too.  
15.10 p.m. > ok but i love you more  
15.21 p.m. > nooooooo

 

 

 

**v.**

“Where,” Yuuri says irritatedly, “is the gun emoji?”

“Look near the knife,” Yurio offers, helpful. “Are you two idiots fighting again?”

“Not really.”

Yuuri doesn't like that word. Fighting. It sounds like things other people do, something that isn't for them to understand. But they do. Sometimes late at night when all the lights are out and Yuuri is sure the world doesn't exist past the edges of their bed, Viktor says things that belong in love poems and darkness at three in the morning. He said _soulmates_ once and Yuuri wondered if people who are fated to be with each other are also fated to fight, sometimes. If the answer is yes, then that's scary. Being someone's soulmate sounds like a lot of hard work.

“Then why are you threatening him?”

“He's talking about adopting another dog again.”

“Oh, god. Again?”

“Again.”

“Katsudon.” Solemnly. “You're dating a moron.”

Teenagers, Yuuri thinks fondly. He sends his text.

No, not a fight, but the dog talk is getting a little old. Being someone's soulmate -someone's forever, as Viktor called him some other night, when Yuuri was practically asleep and he woke up and he thought he'd dreamed it, but knew that he hadn't- is hard work indeed. He wonders something else too: if Viktor finds it hard, too, sometimes.

Then again, as Viktor says, he doesn't like doing things the easy way, so Yuuri supposes he wouldn't be too bothered if that were the case.

 

 

 

**vi.**

Viktor likes pet names. Yuuri doesn't think much of it when it starts. It makes him pause once, briefly, but then it's back to business and triple axels. It feels like it belongs there with them, feels like the fingers Viktor brushes over Yuuri's lower spine when they're watching a movie or the soft shudder Yuuri gives in response, every time. Viktor calls him _love_ like it's a semantic rule that admits no discussion.

Of course, once Yuuri doesn't properly react, Viktor just pushes for more.

“Are you taking Makkachin out, sweetheart?”

Sometimes they're Russian names, sometimes they're Japanese. Once, he even tries French. Yuuri accepts it and lets Viktor have it, even though it doesn't do much for him. They're cute, he supposes, but he likes his name on Viktor's lips best. When he says it, it sounds like all the good things in the world have happened all at once.

“Yuuri, darling.”

_Oh._

There's something almost electrical that flows all the way down to his toes. It's like being kissed in that spot under his ear and near his hairline, even though Viktor's lips are comically far away from that place, near his hipbone.

Viktor notices. He always does.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, keep going.”

“Bossy.”

“ _Viktor._ ”

Even his eyelashes are pretty when he blinks up at him like that. “Yes, darling?”

His stomach is in knots. The comfortable kind. The butterfly-shaped knots. They happen at least twice a week and at this point, Yuuri has to admit they're probably not going anywhere in the near future or the not so near one. He closes his eyes, bites his lip.

“You like that,” Viktor mutters, awed.

Yuuri closes his eyes a little tighter. Yes, yes, yes. He breathes out and moves his hips a little. He's so hard and Viktor is so pretty, he's the kind of beautiful that can make people crawl up the walls with want, the kind of gorgeous that never stops hitting you in the face. Yuuri's fingers tighten around Viktor's hair and he nods.

Viktor says it again, _darling_ , as he bites softly on Yuuri's thigh.

He doesn't know what it is about it. Maybe the way Viktor's tongue curls harshly around the _r_ , the heavy accent he'll never quite lose. Maybe his eyes as he undresses Yuuri like he's unwrapping the most precious of presents and says _Yuuri, darling, I'll be so good to you tonight, I promise._

Yuuri shivers his way into an orgasm that lasts a lifetime, and then some more.

 

 

 

 

**vii.**

On a rooftop, naked, in Hasetsu, with alcohol making a trainwreck out of Yuuri's delicate stomach, Viktor confesses: “I feel like a ninja.”

“I think I'm going to throw up.” But just in case, Yuuri adds: “I feel like a ninja too.”

There's a weight on his shoulder, the soft of Viktor's hair tickling his skin. Yuuri wonders if this is how they die, today, hungover.

“I'm sorry I got jealous.”

“I'm sorry I don't know how to talk when I'm drunk.”

They should probably get down before this really takes a turn for the worse. But the sky is pretty, kind of blue and kind of pink, and Yuuri asks, still clinging a little to that alcohol fever that makes words easy and wonderful, “If you could be a day, what day would you be?”

Viktor answers like he's been ready for this question his entire life.

“The day of the banquet, of course.” And Yuuri loves him so much he thinks he could compose a song about it and skate to it every single season for the rest of his life. “What about you?”

“I would be...” Yes, naturally. Naturally. “Today. I think I'd be this day.”


End file.
